Given Up
by Ramonks33
Summary: SPOILERS FOR THE DEATH CURE. He's come too far to see the end now. He's pushed on. But now, as he stood on the stone ledge, there was nothing left to say. He was a Glader. A Runner. Newt. And he would take it all away from WICKED. Just one jump. Rated T for suicide triggers and swearing.


_Given Up._

_A/N: Finished the Death Cure. Oh that's alright, I didn't need a heart anyway. So, reading this scene when Newt confesses he tried to kill himself, this song by Imagine Dragons popped into my head, and I was inspired to write this! Please R&R and forgive me if there is OOC._

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There was nothing left to say now.

The more he stares at the ground, the more he wanted his body to get on with it. To bend his legs and feel that momentous free falling sensation he knew he would feel when he jumped. He wanted it all to end now.

Hour upon hour, he has stayed in this bloody Maze. The Glade, where only about 20 or so boys his own age worked tirelessly to survive. To make maps, to keep track of their trails in the Maze every day, every hopeful day dying once they realized they had made no progress. Sitting, sleeping. Waiting. Hoping. Praying. This bloody Maze was no safe haven. It was a Hell. A terrifying, neverending Hell. Maybe that's why he couldn't remember anything. He had no clue who he was. Newt. It was a silly name, but he shook his head. It was his name and he accepted it. His age was nearly 15, he supposed. Eating Frypan's somewhat decent food, he was only friends, if that's what they would call it, with few Runners. Minho. That was probably the only person he was comfortable with calling friend.

When the sun arose, the gates would open. Lining up at the doors. Running. Always running. No matter how much his lungs would burn, no matter how much his legs would ache, that's all he could do. Run. He was carrying the hopes of freedom of his fellow Gladers on his shoulders as he ran, and when the moon replaced the sun, he would fail them each time. Who knew how long he would be awake when he tries to sleep? The shadows on his walls were always calling him, yelling and taunting that he could not escape. But he pushed on and on and on. To keep running because that's all he could do. Would a savior arise one day? Of course not. They've given up on the idea of higher power, that there could've been a God. But they could only depend on each other, even if their ways were wrong. Every Glader felt this sort of hopelessness, that they would never escape. Perhaps, as a Runner, Newt felt it even more.

The harsh winds of the night brushes his face, sweeping his unkempt locks out of his pale face. Falling. Crushing and breaking on the ground. Shattering and dying. He wanted that more then anything. Adraneline rushes through his body, and he felt a sort of happiness, to know he would no longer have to live this hell. A smile curved on his bruised and bloody face, and a laugh erupted from his throat. Laughter. On the edge of death, and he was laughing. He truly has lost it. For one moment, a beetle bug flashes in front of his face, bearing those loathsome words. WICKED. Wicked. Their creators. Their damnation. Their supposed salvation. He hated those words more then anything. He would never forgive them and will destroy anybody part of their facility. How he'd love to see their little plans failing. He had no doubt that this was some sort of test. That perhaps he had some sort of life before this fucked up hell. But it was all gone now. They had taken all that away from him, his life, his past, his hope for a future. It was all gone now. He had nothing to live for. He didn't want to have a tomorrow.

He and the Gladers had no hope for a new world. Why did they keep running when there would be no finish line? That was who they are. They were Runners, to keep running to a deadline that would never appear. The pain of knowing that, to know he had no hope for a new future. They were never welcome into this world, he felt, and that was who they are. It didn't matter how far they would run, or if they would was what they were. Rats running and running, dying inside, to feel that crushing weight of a fail of succession on his shoulders. He could no longer live like this. No more.

Spreading his arms, he smiles one last time, and he knew, that was who he was. Newt. A Glader. A Runner. One to fall, and he will not rise. His foot fell off the stone wall, and he felt that falling sensation, and for a moment, he was free. He was flying. He was free of WICKED's bloody game. Let them call him crazy or insane. It was who he was. And there was nothing left to say anymore, for WICKED had taken all his words and ripped them to shreds. They had taken his identity, his world. And he will take himself from their grasp.  
The drums of heaven echoes in his ears as he kept free falling, falling, flying. And then he felt nothing. Nothing. And that was the thankful silence he had been pleading for ever since he stepped into the Maze.


End file.
